


Hurry to Love

by agirlsname



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bittersweet, Christmas Carols, Growing Old, M/M, POV Second Person, Snow Storm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:39:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27760120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agirlsname/pseuds/agirlsname
Summary: My contribution to the Johnlock advent calendar is this odd ficlet for the prompt "sleigh ride".
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 77
Kudos: 126
Collections: 2020 Advent Collection Johnlock Style, Sherlock and John Stories that Ease the Soul





	Hurry to Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [B](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=B).



> This fic is written for an advent calendar in which everyone gets one day to post something. I was assigned the prompt "sleigh ride" and my mind went to a children's story by the famous Swedish author Astrid Lindgren. So I guess this is a Sherlock/Madicken fusion?
> 
> The title (and some lines in the fic) are borrowed from a song by Tove Jansson named _Höstvisa_ ("Autumn Song"), which I played at my grandmother's funeral a few days ago. When she died unexpectedly I didn't think I'd be able to write something for this advent after all, but I decided to write through my emotions instead. This bittersweet little tribute to her is the result.
> 
> In order to get it done, I decided to limit the wordcount to 1k exactly, so I wouldn't be so tempted to get wordy (as tends to happen!).
> 
> Thank you Akhenaten's Mummy for the quick yet thorough beta, and thank you Tindomerelhloni for the initiative to the collection.
> 
> For _mormor_ : I love you.

You are too old for cases like this. Your shoulder is playing up and the storm leaves ice shards in your windpipe when you gasp for air. The snow doesn’t help; tiny needles pricking at your eyeballs.

Sherlock never seems to notice that he too is getting older. He keeps dashing off after every criminal he deems interesting enough, dragging you behind him.

Well. Not _dragging_ , perhaps. You couldn’t stay away if you tried.

But you do wish that this particular case, during this particular blizzard, hadn’t put you both on the back of a sleigh, balancing on the runners and holding on for dear life. You’re going at full speed towards the forest. The good news is you can hear every word said by the two men sitting in the sleigh, and they didn’t notice you jumping onto the runners. The bad news is Sherlock still has that intense look on his face, meaning he hasn’t got the information he needs yet, and you have to keep hanging on.

Your fingers have long since gone numb and the woods are high and dark around you when Sherlock finally gives you a look. You both let go at the same time, tumbling off the sleigh runners and into the deep snow. The sleigh disappears quickly and leaves you alone with only the sound of the wind wheezing around your ears.

It isn’t terribly surprising that the genius has no plan from here. He has the information he was looking for, but it doesn’t help against the fury of the storm, and there is obviously no phone service out here. You walk around for a bit with your phone up in the air, trying to find a signal, but then the battery dies because it’s just that kind of day.

Maybe it’s the snow and the darkness playing tricks on you, but for a moment you think Sherlock is looking at you with care. Your coat is not as good as his, and your shoulder can’t take weather like this.

The great Sherlock Holmes can’t be doing too well either. Yet he unbuttons his coat and parts the precious wool, letting the blizzard grab his sides. Your protests get lost in the wind when he pulls you in, holding you against his chest and folding the coat around you.

His heart pulses against your chest. You think that this is actually an okay way to spend a night in a screaming stormy wood. This is actually an okay way to die.

When you first hear the bells you think you’re imagining them. But Sherlock hears them too, so you lift your head from the depths of his silky scarf and squint into the darkness. There are torches in the distance, the sound of hooves and – is that carols? Another sleigh appears out of the turmoil of tiny snowflakes, heading back the way you came, out of the woods. It halts before you.

An old couple drives the sleigh, sitting huddled together under a blanket. You climb up and sit on the bench opposite them. Sherlock sits down right next to you. The old woman gives you a pile of blankets which you wrap tightly around the pair of you. The heat from your bodies pressed together is already building up inside the thick wool.

The torches flicker in the falling snow and leave smoky pillars coiling in the wind. The sleigh starts moving and the couple starts singing a carol in time with the chiming bells. _God Rest You Merry, Gentlemen_ reminds you of Christmas with your grandparents; it was Grandma’s favourite.

You haven’t thought about them in a long time, but the old couple before you resemble your grandparents. The way they lean against each other, the way they sing together. They know their time together is limited and they treasure what they have left. Life is so short compared to what came before and what comes after; a parenthesis in eternity. This is where they can be together, and they know they must hurry.

Grandpa was with Grandma when she died. He had to leave the hospital room now and then during the last hours; said she was so beautiful he couldn’t stand it. You didn’t understand at the time. You couldn’t imagine what it was like wanting to live with someone for sixty long years. To see them every day in every way they could be, and still cry over their beauty at their deathbed. Maybe that kind of love wasn’t for you.

Sherlock stirs beside you. You feel his ribcage expand with every breath since you’re touching from shoulder to knee. You always feel this little thrill when he touches you. But it strikes you that it isn’t unusual. He’s rarely far away. He’s not going anywhere – yet.

The bells ring and the torches blaze through the coldness. The blankets smell of Christmas morning; Sherlock smells of home. The old ones sing of comfort and joy. In a stormy wood in the deepest winter, you understand what that is.

You will stay with Sherlock until the end. No matter in what way, you will be there for his last breath – and if not, it’s because he will be there for yours. Then it'll be too late to wonder and search, and all the things you never did will break your heart. You want to at least have the chance to sit by his bedside when he’s tired and small, hold his hand and cry at his immortal beauty.

You turn your head to bury your nose in his scarf again. He feels your movement and pulls back, reading your face.

 _We_ _must_ _hurry_ , he reads. _Hurry to love._

He doesn’t smile. But a veil is parting in his eyes, revealing something urgent and unfathomably deep. _You_ smile, a little bit, because you can read his face too. You read that if you let him, he will look at you like this for the rest of your lives.


End file.
